Rasputin
by saltlines
Summary: Tony inflicts his encyclopedic knowledge of eighties pop music and his astute nicknaming skills on Clint in an attempt to win a bet with Natasha. Brovengers.


"Hey, Rasputin, get your ass over here." Tony's dry voice comes over the coms, startling Clint from his exhausted trance. He stands from his position on the roof, stretching out his aching back.

"Legolas, I get. Katniss, I definitely get. Hell, I'll go for Merida, but what the fuck?" Clint trots across the deck of the Avengers tower, and lets himself into Tony's office.

The man in question is sprawled out over a stupidly large couch, one splinted leg propped up on the coffee table. "You knew I was talking to you, though, so-"

Clint snorts. "Well, seeing as we're the only people here, 'cause I'm stuck babysitting your belligerent ass-"

"Hey, definitely not my fault I almost got brutally slaughtered by the Brave Little Toaster." Tony scoots over on the couch to make room for Clint.

"But it is definitely your fault you tried to sneak out of the med floor three hours later." Clint plops himself down on the sofa, and throws his feet up on the table.

"They kept handing me things."

Clint rolls his eyes, and shakes his head.

"Anyways, Rasputin is a perfect nickname. I'm frankly ashamed of myself that it took me so long to think of it." Tony offers his bag of freeze-dried strawberries to Clint.

"You should use it for Natasha. She's the crazy Russian." He takes a handful of strawberries, dropping quite a few crumbs into the cushion in the process.

"Ah, but there's the great bit. Natasha is the Russian _Queen_." Tony smirks to himself. "Plus, I have a hankering that you're impossible to kill."

Clint continues to stare at Tony in bemusement. "I think my total absence of a functioning understanding of history is giving me a serious disadvantage in this conversation."

"No, but it's not even history." Tony's words are slightly mangled by his mouthful of dried strawberries. "'S pop music. Eighties pop music, to be precise."

"Oh, because I'm an eighties pop music encyclopaedia, just like you." Clint grabs a few more berries, breaking them down into tiny pieces before throwing them into his mouth.

Tony snorts. "It's Boney M, they did a song about the illustrious Cossack prophet. It's like, ra-ra-Rasputin, lover of the Russian queen." He chuckles. "And since you're madly in love with Natasha-"

"I am not madly in love with Nat. We have mutual respect and admiration." Clint makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a haughty sniff.

"Oh, absolutely." Tony rolls his eyes. "It's not like there's a rather large pool running on how long it takes you to man up and admit it."

Clint stares at Tony, a small part of him concocting various painful and humiliating ways in which to murder the billionaire.

"And, I don't know if you've noticed, but there are exactly two people who are allowed to call her Nat. And you're the only one left." Tony pokes Clint in the shoulder. "Even I know not to mess with her." He grins. "Although, mano a mano, I'm torn between Pippi Longstocking and Anne of Green Gables."

"I think if you called her Anne, she'd paint the tower pea-soup." Clint smirks. "And I would so help her."

"See, that's true love. You'd sacrifice yourself for her honor."

Clint laughs. "J.A.R.V.I.S. likes me too much to help you hide our bodies."

"I knew I shouldn't have given him so much personality. He's almost worse than Dummy." Tony shakes the last few strawberry crumbs into his mouth and throws the bag on the table.

"Hey, I like Dummy."

"Birds of a feather."

"Do just forget that I'm a highly trained assassin?"

Tony just giggles. "Oh, man, your kids will be deadly. Little murderous munchkins."

Clint smiles. "They'll be damn cute, too."

"Ah-ha!" Tony crows triumphantly. "You said they _will_, not they _would_."

"Just like I _will_ kill you and make it look like a tragic, humiliating accident." Clint slouches lower into the couch, sighing loudly through his nose. "Look, I can't help it, okay?"

Tony is silent.

"You get to know someone that good, you either love 'em or you end up murdering them in their sleep." Clint sighs again. "Or both."

When Clint looks over, Tony is grinning like a maniac.

"What?" A note of alarm creeps into Clint's voice. "What've you done?"

The insufferable genius digs his hand into the couch cushion and pulls out a comm unit. "Did you get that, Natasha?"

"Loud and clear, Tony."

Clint turns bright red, then slightly purple. "Nat, I-"

"Don't worry about it, Hawkeye. You think I haven't known? Or that I don't feel the same?"

"Wha-" Clint buries his head in his hands. "Tony, we are not friends."

Tony smirks, until Natasha pipes up again. "Stark, I'd like my money in gold bullion, please. Preferably by the end of the week. Widow out."

A burst of static closes out the comm, and Tony curses impressively.

Clint just smirks. "That's karma for you, asshole."


End file.
